


I'm sorry, the old Bucky can't come to the phone right now

by beginningwithA, sevenimpossiblethings



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Getting Together, Jarvis (Iron Man movies) Lives, M/M, No F.R.I.D.A.Y, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, POV Multiple, Taylor Swift References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-13 10:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20580710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beginningwithA/pseuds/beginningwithA, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenimpossiblethings/pseuds/sevenimpossiblethings
Summary: Why? 'Cause he's listening to Taylor Swift.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One weekend, I was very mad at my health insurance company, at which point my current habit of saying “BUCKY BARNES MURDER FACE” in response to all inconveniences was activated. I also remarked to beginningwithA that if I were Bucky, Tony would pay someone to deal with this all for me.  
It somehow spiraled from there.  
(There are no references to medical insurance in this fic.)
> 
> On that note, 1,989 thank-yous to beginningwithA, for the initial plotting session, characterization thoughts, playlists and *bonus media content*, title and summary, and editing. She is the co-executive producer of this fic and also my life. I am endlessly (genuinely, _endlessly_) grateful for her.
> 
> There are a _lot_ of Taylor Swift references in this story. If you really hate her or her songs, that's cool, but this is probably not the fic for you. If you’re a fan, this will hopefully be entertaining. If you’re somewhere in between, this fic should still be generally comprehensible. This is not a #sponsored fic, but if Tree Paine wants to give me & beginningwithA free tour tickets, I would not object. 
> 
> Keep calm & stream #Lover,  
sevenimpossiblethings

Sam was driving Bucky back from group therapy when it happened.

Bucky usually didn’t like to talk much on the way back from group, but he didn’t like the quiet either, so Sam made playlists of all the music he knew Tony was likely to skip in his cultural crash course. 

Today, Spotify—premium, of course, and you bet your ass Sam expensed that—was treating them to Top 40s hits of the 21st century. A ridiculously broad range, sure, but more useful than AC/DC and… more AC/DC and… AC/DC so loud it just blew straight through your eardrums. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam watched as Bucky started to bop a little to whatever beat. 

Sam tuned back into the music: _You don’t know about me, but I bet you want to_. 

Sam grinned to himself and focused on the Midtown traffic. 

Tony was going to have a meltdown if Bucky started retaliating with this playlist. You couldn’t get more pop than “22.” 

_Sorry your crush has good taste. A little basic, but good_, Sam thought, pre-preparing his arguments, already imagining the way Tony would stutter and bluster and try to pretend like he wasn’t head over heels for the work-in-progress curled into Sam’s passenger seat. 

The song changed. 

_More Taylor_, Sam thought absently as he switched lanes. 

When he glanced over again, Bucky was frozen in his seat, every muscle standing at attention, straining against those tight clothes he wore when he wasn’t buried in three sweaters and two layers of fuzzy socks. 

Sam did a rapid check of all the windows, looking for a threat, a trigger, but nothing. Just the usual traffic, the usual cacophony of New York City. 

“Hey, man,” he tried. “You good?” 

Bucky flapped a hand at him. _Shhh_. 

“No, seriously, we gonna die here?” 

Bucky gave him the finger. 

Sam shushed. 

In the silence, he could hear the new song. 

_When it was hard to take, yes, yes, this is what I thought about. _

Sam was barely looking at the traffic at this point, trying to keep his eyes on Bucky’s still form, Bucky's eyes staring at some infinite distance out the windshield, caught up, apparently, in that certain country call of Taylor singing “Mine.” 

Two minutes later, when Spotify jolted them into Kesha, Bucky jerked in his seat, turning furiously to Sam. 

“Put it back,” he said. 

“What?” 

“The—the _song_,” Bucky said, as if “song” could not possibly encompass the totality of what he meant. “Put it back.” 

“Whatever you say,” Sam said. 

They listened to “Mine” all the way back to the Tower. 

In the basement parking garage, Bucky finally looked back at Sam again, his eyes huge. 

“How does she know?” he asked. “How does she—in a _song_.” 

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. 

Bucky bit his lip. He frowned down at his fingers, his eyes moving individually across each knuckle, metal and then flesh. 

“Tony… He, uh. That rooftop, thing, he had for us. You could see the water.” 

Sam could barely remember that party, he’d gotten so drunk, trying to keep up with Clint. Goddamn circus brat. 

“You stick with Stark, you get some good views,” said Sam. 

Bucky glared, which—Sam sat back in his seat. 

_City lights on the water_. 

Now this was getting interesting. 

“He doesn’t give up on people. Even when he should. He.” Bucky stopped, eyebrows furrowed, back to frowning into the wheel well. “Space and food and armor and weapons, and he looks like he’s so, he tries to seem so—_careless_ with it, but he’s not at all.” He met Sam’s gaze. “He pretends not to be careful.” 

Sam tilted his head back against the headrest. “You gonna make a rebel of him?” 

“He is _the best thing_,” Bucky said, so earnestly Sam wanted to grab his cheeks. 

“Uh-huh,” he said instead. “You wanna tell me about it?” 

“He—” Bucky stopped. “You’re making fun of me.” 

“I thought we were having a moment. Sharing,” said Sam. 

Bucky slammed his seatbelt open button so hard, Sam was surprised it didn’t break. 

Then again: Bucky was a lot more careful than most people gave him credit for. 

“He… I want him to…” Bucky shook his head. 

“It’s okay,” Sam said. 

Bucky turned his head away. 

“You know,” Sam tried, “There’s more of that. If you like “Mine,” if you really want to get into Taylor…” 

“More,” Bucky agreed, like a very aggressive _Oliver!_ orphan.

“Right,” Sam said. “So what we’re gonna do is, we’re gonna get some snacks. We’re gonna sneak upstairs—do not get distracted by Tony, this is a bro moment, you need way more Taylor before you’re prepared to see him again—and if we’re really going to do this… We gotta start with _Red_.” 

And so they did. 

The first time they listened to “Holy Ground,” Bucky didn’t breathe. 

Sam meant that literally. 

Bucky _literally did not breathe_. 

The song was three minutes and twenty-three seconds long. 

Bucky then demanded an immediate repeat. Sam counted three breaths, shallow and careful. A sniper’s quiet. 

Two songs later, Bucky made them listen to “The Lucky One” three times. 

Sam didn’t dare to interrupt the album to introduce some Britney to the mix. 

Bucky made a funny face at “Starlight,” Taylor’s Kennedy songfic (and people claimed to not know she’d been a Democrat all along). Bucky’s _summer of ’45_ had certainly not featured Bobby on the boardwalk. 

When they finally made it through the bonus tracks, Bucky was spread out on Sam’s floor, eyes squeezed shut, breathing again. 

Sam had met plenty of vets who connected deeply to music, of course, and, hell, Sam had gone hard to plenty of stuff in his day. Including some _Red_ jams, thank you very much. But he wasn’t Bucky’s group leader or psychologist or anybody but his friend, and it was _weird as fuck_ to watch your friend have an out-of-body experience thanks to _Taylor Swift_ on your living room floor. 

After a minute, Bucky rolled himself up and walked out. 

“Bye,” Sam said, talking to the carpet. 

  


At two a.m., Bucky burst into the bedroom. 

“Wha—” mumbled Sam. 

Steve, of course, was already bolt upright next to him, blankets shoved aside. “Bucky? Bucky! What’s wrong?” 

“_Red_,” Bucky said, mournfully. “It was robbed.” 

Oh, hell. 

“… What?” said Steve, tone cautious. 

“_Red_ deserved a Grammy.” 

Sam should have expected this. (He underestimated just who he was dealing with.) 

“Go back to sleep,” Sam said, pointing from one supersoldier to the next. 

“You know what I’m talking about. You know I’m right,” said Bucky, looking at Sam accusatorally, as if Sam had been a damn voting member. 

“Look up _Lemonade_ versus _25_, and _Dirty Computer_ versus _Golden Hour_. Then we can talk, ” Sam said. 

“I’m busy,” said Bucky. 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Go away.” 

After Bucky left, Steve said, “Is Bucky really okay?” 

Sam considered this. “If he ever mentions the 2009 VMAs in conversation, run. Don’t walk. Just leave him.” 

“I can’t do that,” Steve said. 

“Steve,” Sam said, “I love you, you know that, right?” 

Steve ducked his head. “Yeah. I love you, too.” 

“Uh-huh. We’ve got this mutual love thing going on. So you need to believe me when I say, you do not want to be in the blast radius of a new Taylor Swift fan learning about the 2009 VMAs. You hear him mention Kanye West one time, you…” Sam sighed. “… you send him to me.” 

Sam was going to regret this, he just knew it. 

  


While Sam was trying to enjoy a pleasant, post-run smoothie with his boyfriend the next morning, Bucky barged into the kitchen. 

He slammed an honest-to-God CD on the table. 

Sam looked down. 

_Fearless_—platinum edition—looked up at him. 

“We skipped some,” said Bucky. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised *bonus media content*, and the first is here! Courtesy of beginningwithA at the end of the chapter. ;)

In Tony’s defense, he didn’t mean for this to happen. 

Surely no one could have predicted the way this…. spiraled. 

(Except for Sam, who didn’t count.) 

All Tony did, one typical Tuesday night, was walk into the big living room and catch Bucky wedged tightly into the corner of the window bench, half-hidden behind one of his many plants. 

Prior to Bucky’s arrival, Tony’s personal floors had been pretty (that is to say, completely) plant-less. Sure, the Tower ran on green energy, but Tony didn’t have a green bone spur in his body, much less a whole thumb. Give him some screws and a sheet of metal and he’d change the world, but a daisy? Forget about it. 

Then Bucky happened, and Steve tried to have a lot of very solemn, low-voice conversations with Tony about _what that meant_. Tony promptly ignored almost all of it, because he figured that one person treating Bucky with kid gloves was probably enough. 

About a month in, Bucky had appeared next to Tony in the kitchen—almost literally out of thin air, _Jesus Christ, I’m not as young—or—whatever—as the rest of you, I have a heart condition, you can’t do that—_and Bucky had caught the knife Tony was no longer holding before it could finish its fall and slice off a toe. 

“I’m sorry I killed your parents,” Bucky had said, frowning, and before Tony could even begin to process that, followed it up with, “Also, I need a plant. Maybe… more than one.” 

“Uh,” Tony had said, kind of wishing he were sitting down for this one and contemplating whether he would lose the moral high ground if he just. Sat on the ground. (Yes.)

Bucky had looked back at him, steadily, calmly. In control. Evidently Tony was taking too long, because Bucky had added, “My therapist says. I need to take care of something.” 

Tony had looked Bucky up and down, slowly, taking in his clothes (still Steve’s) and his hair (still tangled, split ends everywhere) and said, “Have you looked into a mirror recently?” 

Bucky had glared. “I am. Supposed. To _practice_.” 

Which was how Tony had ended up ordering Bucky approximately a million (okay, thirteen) plants with various sunshine requirements, all of which Bucky took care of assiduously. 

So, like Tony said: typical Tuesday night, Bucky behind one of his plants—do _not_ ask Tony to name the species, he was not that kind of scientist—scowling very intently at his StarkPad screen, ears covered with S.I. noise-cancelling headphones. 

And it was… 

See, the thing was, Bucky had been in New York for a while now. At team dinners for a while, making the kind of dark jokes that Steve loved except when they came from Bucky’s mouth. In Tony’s lab for a while, first for replacing his arm with an actually humane prosthetic, Jesus fucking _Christ_, and then just to, Tony didn’t even know, did ex-Winter Soldiers _hang out_? Apparently. 

In Tony’s dreams for a while, if Tony was being honest, a hand (either one) on Tony’s hips, hair falling over his face but not enough to hide his bedroom eyes or red lips. 

So when Tony was confronted with Bucky, knees tucked up, clean hair in a messy bun, eyebrows scrunched in concentration… his first reaction was to think, _he’s fucking adorable and I want to kiss his stupid face_. 

His second reaction, obviously, was to take a picture. 

“Whatcha doing, Bucky?” he asked, because there was never a scene into which Tony Stark did not insert himself. 

Bucky looked up, the scowl leaving his eyes if not his mouth. He shifted his headphones so one ear was uncovered. “Listening.” 

“Yeah? Anything good?” Tony plopped down next to him on the window bench. 

Bucky promptly stuck his legs over Tony’s thighs. 

“Album of the Year, 2020,” Bucky said, very seriously. 

Tony frowned. “Grammy’s haven’t happened yet.” 

“Album. Of. The Year. 2020,” Bucky repeated, almost in a growl. 

It was, Tony would admit, kind of sexy. 

Okay, very sexy. 

“Well, enlighten me, then, since that hasn’t actually _happened yet—_” 

“Taylor,” Bucky grumbled. 

Tony raised his eyebrows. 

“Taylor _Swift_?” 

Tony’d met her before. Very polite. Very strategic. Tony respected that. 

“_Lover_,” said Bucky, and Tony’s poor heart pretty much stopped before he remembered that Bucky was emphatically _not_ calling him “lover” but was instead naming the title of an album that had recently sold just shy of a million units in a week. 

So Jarvis kept him updated on music news. 

Sue him. 

(Please don’t. Pepper would murder him. No jury would convict her.) 

“And… what do you think?” Tony ventured. 

“It’s genius,” Bucky said, still in that pissed-off declarative way of his. “I don’t want to listen to anything else for.” He cocked his head. “A month. At least. She’s in my _brain_. In a good way.” 

“Hey, that’s great,” Tony said, already planning who he should hack to get the tour dates. Maybe Bucky’d like some concert tickets for Christmas. 

“Genius,” Bucky repeated. He touched his ear, as if about to replace the other headphone, then stopped, looking at Tony intently in that way that made Tony feel that his every atom was up for scrutiny. “Would you… do you want to listen? With me. Now. I can take off the headphones.” A faint blush rose on his cheeks. 

“Uh, Jarvis—” Tony flapped a hand. 

“You are supposed to be taking the night off, Sir,” Jarvis said. 

“Well, then,” said Tony. “Show me what Miss Swift has been up to.” 

“Being happy,” said Bucky. 

And it could have ended there, a perfect, ridiculous evening, listening to an album distinctly not meant for men edging toward fifty, but Bucky’s shoulder was pressed against his and, hey, if you’re not going to have high-school-crush feels while listening to Taylor Swift, you’re doing yourself a disservice. Tony was man enough to admit that. 

  


Tony’s mistake, as about two million people were about to make clear, was to post the picture he’d first taken. 

The caption read: _This is his “I’d die for this” face. @buckybarnes #Lover_

And then the Swifties had gotten hold of it. 

The photo skyrocketed up the most-liked, most-commented lists, seemingly everyone and their grandmother tagging Taylor. 

Bucky had just looked so _cute_. 

“I look like I want to kill the computer,” Bucky had complained, but it wasn’t a real complaint, Tony knew, or else he’d take the picture down. 

“You look very focused. That’s the highest compliment, isn’t it?” 

Bucky looked at him. 

“Attention,” Tony explained, and then Bucky had looked at him a little more, and Tony had fled to his ‘bots. 

Just in time for Jarvis to route him a call from Tree Paine, Taylor’s publicist, who worked as hard as Kris Jenner. Maybe harder. 

“Hi, Tony,” Tree said, her voice brisk. “A head’s up would have been nice.” 

“I didn’t think it would catch on like this,” Tony said honestly, petting Dum-E with one hand. 

“It’s Taylor,” said Tree, like it was a full sentence, which was fair enough. “So, look, it’s at the point where we have to do _something_.” 

Tony stayed quiet. 

“Taylor loves it,” Tree said quickly. “Taylor was very happy when Barnes was cleared. But this is tricky for us. We can’t have her associated with… violence.” 

“Of course,” Tony said, trying not to sound like he was talking through gritted teeth. 

Bucky was wearing a _Falcon hoodie_ in the photo. It brought out his eyes. He was the most adorable murder-kitten on the planet, and Tree Paine wanted to talk to Tony about violence? 

“But,” Tree continued, “Again, Taylor thinks it’s great. So expect a delivery from her tomorrow.” 

“Is it a bomb,” Tony deadpanned. 

Tree sighed. 

Taylor was probably so much easier to deal with. 

Tony made a note to send his publicists—he had several, of course—some very good bottles of wine. 

As an afterthought, he added Tree to the list. 

“Just drop me a line if there’s a next time, okay?” said Tree. “And post the gifts when they arrive.” 

She hung up. 

  


The next day, Tony filmed Bucky receiving a bouquet of white roses, with an accompanying note that read, “For a brave fan. Love, Taylor.” 

Because this was Taylor Swift, however, a Slytherin!Hermione Granger if there ever was one, there was another gift, a set of pins featuring lyrics from the album. 

Bucky promptly pinned the one that read “Boy I Fancy You” (by far the worst one) to his Henley. 

Tony sighed, took another picture, and posted that one, too. 

Steve called Bucky’s cell approximately thirty seconds later. 

Tony didn’t know why he was surprised that Bucky had changed his ringtone to the chorus of “Look What You Made Me Do.” 

  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *More bonus media content*, courtesy of the extremely dedicated beginningwithA.

“That was the best meeting of my life,” Tony declared, hopping onto one of the sleek breakfast bar stools while Bucky did something complicated with a knife. “Well, maybe not _the_ best,” he amended. “There have been some good ones. Mostly when I’m about to make the Board hate me but they can’t _say_ that because I’m also about to make them a lot of money. And save the planet. Those are good meetings. But for a PR one, this was top five, easily.” 

Bucky pushed a plate toward him, and Tony picked up a bit of whatever was on it—huh, kiwi—and kept going. 

“_But_.” Tony paused to wag two kiwi-clutching fingers at Bucky. “You really have got to explain to me why, exactly, I just spent forty-five minutes of my time—my extremely valuable time, let me remind you—watching… music videos of us fighting. _Set to Taylor Swift songs_.” 

Don’t get Tony wrong: He watched those outside of work. It was the _meeting_ element that was throwing him off. 

“Is that the… “We Are Getting Back Together” singer?” Steve ventured from somewhere behind them. 

“No,” Tony groaned. He rested his forehead on the cool granite countertop. 

Bucky’s obsession had been ongoing for _months, _and Steve still called her “Tanya Swift” or “Taylor Quick” half the time. 

Tony couldn’t tell if he was genuinely confused, or if Steve Rogers was just the biggest troll of the millennium. 

“Sit up,” Bucky commanded. 

Tony didn’t sit up, but he tipped his head so his chin was resting on the countertop instead of his forehead.

Bucky poked the fruit plate an inch closer. Tony went a little cross-eyed looking at the precise cuts. 

“So, the videos? My best meeting?” Tony prompted. 

Bucky glanced meaningfully at the kiwi. 

Tony sat up, frowning at the fruit plate. 

Bucky rolled his eyes and rotated it until the strawberries were closest to Tony. 

“Our fight against those octopi things was set to “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together,”” Tony stressed. “By _you_.” 

“And it has ten million hits on YouTube.” Bucky smirked. 

“Why did I not get a call from Tree Paine about this?” 

“We’re mutuals on Twitter,” said Bucky. 

“Wait,” said Sam, sliding onto the stool next to Tony. “I’ve gotta hear this. What else did you do?” 

“Are you going to… judge him on his song selection?” Tony asked. 

“Hell yeah I am,” said Sam. 

“Eat your strawberries,” said Bucky. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about your secret YouTube account. That is _against the bro code_,” Sam whined. 

“My therapist says it’s healthy for me to develop independent interests and practice skills with no survival value.” Bucky emphasized this by filleting a salmon. 

“Fine, _you_ spill the song list,” Sam said, turning to Tony. 

“Tony’s eating,” said Bucky, pushing the damn fruit plate even closer, which was extremely unfair, given that Tony was chewing _two strawberries at once_. 

“We could guess!” Steve said helpfully, wrapping his arms around Sam. 

“No,” said Sam and Tony immediately. 

“I love you, but you gotta sit this one out,” Sam said. 

“If you can’t handle the Swift, get out of the kitchen,” said Tony. 

Steve retreated to a nearby couch. 

““I Did Something Bad,”” said Bucky, not missing a beat. 

“Obviously,” said Sam. 

“It was a masterpiece,” said Tony, midway through chewing some sort of melon. 

“Swallow,” said Bucky. 

Tony nearly choked. 

Bucky looked at him, steady and serious. 

Tony swallowed. 

This man was going to be the death of him. 

Sam cleared his throat. “Uh, what else?” 

““Should’ve Said No,” for the mutant pirates,” said Bucky. 

“I respect that,” said Sam. 

“Respect the jump cuts,” said Tony fervently. 

“Thanks,” said Bucky, grinning as he rubbed the salmon down with…. something. Tony didn’t know. He was obviously going to put it in his mouth at some point in the near future, regardless. “After those, I had to do “Bad Blood.” Just to appease my followers, you know.” 

“Oh yeah, _so _cliché,” Sam laughed. 

“As if Taylor’s original video isn’t homoerotic enough,” Tony muttered. 

“I found some very nice angles of his ass,” Bucky told Sam. 

“I’m not at all surprised,” said Sam. 

“Hey,” said Tony. “_All_ angles of my ass are nice.” 

“I didn’t think you’d feel respected if that was the whole video,” said Bucky. “I can edit it, if you want.” 

“No, that’s…” 

Next to him, Sam was laughing _his_ ass off. 

And Tony had had to _watch_ this video, in a room with the best PR specialists money can by. 

“Anything else?” Sam asked. 

““This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things,”” answered Tony. “And can I just say—that was a work of art. I’m thinking of buying another exhibit at the Met just to play that on loop. I’m going to substitute that video in for post-fight press conferences.” 

Bucky blushed. 

“The student has become the master,” said Sam.

“And last one was for you,” Bucky said abruptly, pointing his knife at Sam. 

“Uh… because my ass is also worthy of a national hero?” Sam said. 

““Getaway Car,”” said Bucky. “In honor of our first meeting.” 

“I fucking hate you,” said Sam. 

Bucky shrugged. “You wouldn’t move that damn seat.” 

Two days later, a small package arrived at the Tower for Bucky. 

Inside was a white baseball cap, TAYLOR SWIFT embroidered across the front in multicolors. 

Bucky tried it on gleefully while Tony read the card aloud (_Something for your daylight. Love, Taylor_.) 

“Is that from the Starbucks singer?” Steve asked. 

Nobody answered him. 

Bucky’s next Instagram post was a selfie of him wearing the hat on the Tower’s roof. 

Sipping a margarita. 

Shirtless. 

_Shade never made anybody less gay_, read the caption. 

“Jarvis,” said Tony, when he’d smartly squirreled himself away in his lab, “I think we may have a problem.” 

  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for a different kind of *bonus media content*, thanks to the hard work of beginningwithA as always.

It was extremely unfair, Bucky thought, that Tony had to go around being _cute_ all the time. 

Take today, for example. 

Bucky had followed his schedule—he was still grumpy about the necessity of the schedule, he hadn’t been in the American military for the better (worse) part of a century and he sure as hell didn’t fill out a timecard for Avengers work, but the schedule worked for things like getting him out of bed and drinking PSLs with S.I.’s best video designers, and if there was one thing he’d learned from living with Tony, it was that when a thing _worked_, you _let it do its damn job_—and now he was in Tony’s lab.

Where he was supposed to be, where he _belonged_, scrolling through Twitter on his StarkPad while Tony worked on something for S.I. that was presumably going to be revolutionary when it hit the market in six to eight months. 

For now, though, it was all, “Talk to me, Jarvis, baby,” old blue jeans and Metallica t-shirts like a love interest in a Taylor Swift music video as Tony danced his way through holographic designs. 

Dum-E prodded Bucky gently, tapping out a particular beat on Bucky’s thigh. 

“You think we should fix our playlist, huh?” said Bucky, tapping Dum-E back on his support structure. 

It was an extremely secret playlist, classified information between Bucky, Dum-E, and Bucky’s seven million followers on Spotify. 

Which unfortunately included Sam. 

_Asshole_. 

Bucky pulled up the draft playlist. Cutting it down to 22 songs had been one of the most difficult challenges Bucky had ever encountered. As if there were songs that _didn’t_ make him think of Tony. 

The other challenge of the playlist had been forcing himself to add some realistic pining to it. A large part of Bucky still wished it could be “Sparks Fly,” "Mine," and then “Paper Rings” on repeat the whole rest of the way. 

All good things in the 21st century, Bucky was discovering, started with the right playlist. 

His actually secret post-therapy playlist of “Clean,” “Afterglow,” and “Daylight” attested to that. 

And then before Bucky could get too stuck in his own head about _that_, Tony started singing. 

Bucky almost dropped the tablet.

“_But something happened, I heard him laughing, I saw the dimples first and then I heard the accent_—” Tony flicked a design away, pointing at the next and honest to God shimmying his hips. 

Bucky was furiously glad Tony was too wrapped up in his design to pay attention to Bucky’s corner of the lab, because Bucky was not going to miss a moment of this. 

“_Jarvis, you’re my London boy, I enjoy walking Camden Market in the afternoon_—” Tony made a face. 

Bucky couldn’t help it: he laughed. 

Tony grabbed a wrench, pointing it in Bucky’s direction. 

“I want you to know, this is entirely your fault,” he said. Then he shrugged. “Jarvis _is_ my best London boy, anyway. He deserves it.” 

“I haven’t been since the War,” Bucky said, before he could stop himself. “That I remember, anyway.”

Tony tilted his head. “You wanna go sometime? Honestly, we could get on a plane right now and—”

Jarvis made a throat-clearing noise. “Sir, if I may, you have an extremely important meeting tomorrow you promised Miss Potts you would attend.” 

“But _London_,” said Tony. He looked back at Bucky. “Another time.” 

Bucky’s stomach fluttered. 

He felt a little bit like a teenager when Tony did stuff like this, extravagant gestures, even though he knew Tony would have made the same offer to Steve or Natasha. 

Like he said: unfair. 

Completely unfair. 

Still… “Yeah? You wanna show me Hackney?” 

“Please, don’t say that word. Get you some clothes on Bond Street, yes.” 

Bucky stretched, leaving his arms tucked behind his head, smirking when Tony’s eyes darted down to the strip of skin just above his jeans. 

It wasn’t like Tony was ever going to _date_ him, but… well, he knew Tony liked to look. 

“Oh? You don’t wanna watch rugby with my school friends?” 

And… how did Bucky re-cast himself as the London boy all of a sudden? 

“I _know_ your school friend already, so, no thank you.” 

“Aww, Stevie’s not invited?” Bucky pressed. 

A strange look passed over Tony’s face, quickly replaced by a smile. 

“Only if he can stand to sit through something in the West End,” said Tony. 

_Run away with me_, Bucky thought. 

  


Tony was still at S.I. when Bucky wandered into the lab the next day. 

Bucky set a plate of appropriate snack foods—grapes, nuts, an assortment of cheese cubes—at Tony’s favorite work table, then flung himself on the couch. 

His new Taylor Swift sweatshirt, courtesy of Miss Americana herself, kept him comfortably cocooned against the lab’s scientifically-optimal low room temperature. 

“How we doin’ on sleep this week, J?” Bucky asked. 

“And you are defining “we” as…” said Jarvis. 

“Me and Tony, unless he’s defining that as confidential information now.” 

Two holographic charts appeared above the couch. 

Bucky was doing better than Tony, but not by much. 

Neither of them were doing _great_. Not even adequate. 

Bucky was seriously failing in his mission here. 

_Step it up, Barnes_. 

Steve may be the strategic genius of their little band, but Bucky was basically born tricking stubborn dumbasses into rest and nutrition sufficient to allow for continued heroics. 

What a life. 

An hour later, Bucky almost fell off the couch when, without any prompting Bucky could see, Jarvis started blasting music at a volume way higher than Bucky would ever have selected:_ I promise that you’ll never find another like me_. 

Tony skidded into the lab, mouthing along to, “I know that I’m a handful, baby.” 

“Uh,” said Bucky. 

“Bucky!” said Tony. 

The music cut off. 

“Like my new entrance music?” Tony asked. 

“… Entrance music,” repeated Bucky. He wished there were a third party with eyes (sorry, Dum-E; sorry, Jarvis) with whom he could exchange a Look. 

Tony snapped his fingers. “Like, at-bat music. I thought I’d make it a thing, for me and the lab. I looked through some possibilities, and I decided _Me!_ was a relevant personal theme song. Agree? Definitely agree?” 

Bucky’s throat was dry. 

Tony Stark may as well have been designed in a lab—this one, probably—to check _every single box_ Bucky had, plus a few more. 

Let’s be real, this was Tony, so: plus _a lot_ more.

“It should be a new Grammy category,” Bucky managed. 

“Thank you,” said Tony. 

He bypassed his workbench (_but food!_ Bucky thought) and slumped onto the couch, pulling Bucky’s feet across his thighs. 

“How was the meeting?” Bucky asked. 

Tony made a face. “How was therapy?” 

Bucky stuck out his tongue. 

Tony’s eyes trailed over him, landing on his sweatshirt. Tony sighed. 

“You know, I can get you better sweatshirts? We can make our own Taylor Swift stuff? If we don’t sell it, fair use—” 

“No,” said Bucky. He pressed one heel into Tony’s thigh. 

Tony picked up his fuzzy-sock-clad foot and started massaging it, the good, deep kind. 

“These are just… they’re atrocious, Bucky. They’re just so ugly,” said Tony. 

“This is a _personal gift_ from Taylor,” said Bucky, smug. 

“I hate her sometimes,” said Tony, his tone plaintive. 

“Haters gonna hate,” said Bucky. 

“I _knew_ you were going to say that.” 

Tony didn’t stop massaging his feet though. 

  


“_That_ shirt, really?” Tony complained, leaning across the counter to poke at the glitter. 

“If you want it off him so bad, you know what to do,” called Sam. 

Tony jerked back. 

Bucky shoved a plate at him. 

“Criticizing Taylor does not get you out of dinner,” Bucky said. 

  


“_Seriously_, who designs this stuff?” Tony wailed. 

Bucky was wearing the mustard-colored chopped sweatshirt. 

Sam said it showed off his abs. 

Maybe he needed to be more aggressive on the seduction side of things. 

“An internationally renowned designer, for a special collaboration,” grumbled Bucky. “Also, I made quiche.” He pushed a fork into Tony’s hand. 

  


“Bucky,” said Tony, the word garbled through the mouthful of almonds, “I’m not even joking. This is an abomination.” 

Bucky took a deep breath. “Well, you know what to do.” 

“I _do_!” Tony said, grinning manically, and Bucky’s heart swooped—could it really be this easy?—“Let me be your Tennessee Stella McCartney.” 

Bucky let his head thunk back against the cupboard. 


	5. Chapter 5

Things Sam had come to expect when walking into the kitchen at midnight: Bucky baking cookies. 

Things Sam had _not_ come to expect, but should have: Taylor Swift next to him. 

And they had… Grumpy Cat videos playing from Bucky’s StarkPad? 

“Falcon!” she said, smiling brightly. “I mean, Sam Wilson.” 

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Sam said, and felt a fanboy grin spreading across his face. 

_Well, fuck it, if you’re not going to be in awe of Taylor Swift, what’s the point? _

They shook hands. 

It was a good, firm handshake. 

On her end, anyway. 

Sam had no idea what his hand was doing. 

He felt very dazed. 

“I didn’t mean to crash your party,” Sam said, nodding at the baking trays. 

“Don’t worry about it!” she said. “We’re all friends here.” 

Sam blinked. 

Then he mentally kicked his ass into high gear. 

This was probably going to be the only chance he ever had to be in a private setting with Taylor. He couldn’t waste it. 

“I have to say, I like your Tennessee values,” Sam said. 

Taylor smirked. “Why, thank you.” Her eyes softened, her voice becoming gentle and sincere. “And you’re a real hero. A true patriot, I mean it.” 

And Sam thought only Steve could make him blush at this point. 

“I’ve been listening to you since your debut,” he admitted. 

“Aww, thanks! And Bucky’s been telling me that you were the one who introduced him to my music.” 

Which probably explained why Jarvis had let him onto the common floor at all. 

Sam had no doubt it was otherwise locked for unexpected visitors tonight. 

Taylor’s bodyguards either loved Jarvis or hated him. 

Probably both. 

“Just doin’ my part,” said Sam. 

“Bucky has been sharing some of his playlists with me,” Taylor said, eyes sparkling. 

Bucky made an embarrassed noise. 

“You know, sometimes when you really care about someone… you put songs together about them. I know a little something about that,” Taylor continued. 

Never mind Steve, Sam was in love. 

“You do,” Sam said, trying to keep his voice casual. “Remember when people thought Tony was the Heartbreak Prince in “Miss Americana?”” 

“I do,” Taylor said, her tone grave as she looked between him and Bucky. 

“You’re ganging up on me,” said Bucky. 

“Aww, we love you!” said Taylor, hugging him. 

_Hugging Bucky_. 

“And we’re rooting for you two, right?” Taylor said, looking at Sam. 

Like they were in on this together. 

Like… Taylor Swift… was checking to make sure Sam was _also_ actively shipping his best friend with one of the world’s most famous men. 

How was this his life. 

“Since day one,” Sam assured her. “Since before he even knew.” 

“I love that,” said Taylor. 

Bucky had a strange look on his face, like normally he’d be glaring at Sam, but didn’t dare to stoop that low in front of the Daisy Princess herself. 

“So, I gotta ask… since you’re here…” said Sam. 

“I am here,” Taylor agreed. She dolled out another lump of dough onto the cookie sheet. 

“Your whole thing with _Lover_, which really is continuing the thread since _1989, _with moving to a city—to New York—and falling in love with that city’s _person_—you know?” 

Sam wasn’t going to ask. 

He wasn’t. 

But, if in the privacy of Avengers Tower, Taylor wanted to confess a little something… 

Taylor raised her eyebrows. “Congratulations on dating Captain America, Sam.” 

He deserved that. 

“Sometimes a man just has to shoot his shot,” said Sam. “You know, and ask who “Cornelia Street” is about.” 

“All you, Sam. All you,” said Taylor. 

Next to her, Bucky was laughing, not all subtly. 

Sam left them to it. 

  


“So, Bucky. My man,” Sam said, helping himself to a cookie at the respectable hour of 11:57 in the morning. 

“No,” said Bucky. 

_Now_ he glared. 

“Oh, it’s like that, huh,” said Sam. “I take a leave from my job to go chasing after you—”

“—that wasn’t about me, that was about banging Stevie,” said Bucky. 

“—and you still won’t give me insider Taylor info?” Sam ignored the part about Steve. 

Bucky had done plenty of following Steve around in his day, albeit for different reasons. 

Sam reached for another cookie, but Bucky slapped his hand away. 

“These are for Tony,” he said.

“Of course they are.” 

They glared at each other for a moment. 

Sam leaned his elbows on the granite countertop. “One song. Give me the real muse of _one_ song. You can’t tell me she was here for hours, talking about Tony—”

“Shhh!” hissed Bucky. 

Sam rolled his eyes. “—and she didn’t drop anything about her muses.” 

“That information was shared in confidence,” Bucky said, prim as anything. 

Sam couldn’t even go whine to Steve about it. 

There was no point in talking about Taylor Swift-level Easter Eggs with a man who thought Harry Styles was just a _Dunkirk_ actor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Do I have to say I've written RPF now? (Somehow appropriate timing, given today's tour announcement.)


	6. Chapter 6

MJ was not even supposed to _be_ in this meeting. First of all, she was just an intern, and nobody else was below VP-level. Everyone had been required to sign extra NDAs before even walking in the door.

Second of all, she wasn’t even a PR intern. 

Or a marketing intern. 

Or some catch-all social media intern. 

But Peter might have dropped a hint, and then her supervisor dropped another, and when the calendar invite came… she didn’t decline. 

Michelle sat straight up in the leather conference room chair and tried to look five to seven years older than she was. 

“We all wanted to have this meeting about two years ago—” S.I.’s head of PR said. 

“Three,” interrupted someone else. 

The head of PR cleared her throat. “Yes, well. Here we are. Finally. Having it. We’ve had a couple of teams run the numbers. Just… in case. And let’s be clear about this one more time: nothing said in this room leaves it. Not a word, not to anyone.” 

“Not even Mr. Stark?” said the guy to MJ’s left. 

The head of PR pursed her lips. “If you speak with Mr. Stark, I expect you will stay focused on whatever his inquiry is. And if his inquiry is this… then, yes, you may tell him.” She looked around the room and nodded once, decisively. “Good. Now, Marjorie, can you walk us through these projections?” 

Being a rich person was wild, MJ thought. 

A bunch of semi-intelligent, highly paid people were taking time to figure out if Peter’s totally-not-a-dad-figure mentor dating a World War II sniper would cause stock prices to drop. 

Kind of sad, actually. 

MJ squinted at the graphs. 

She doodled a little in her legal pad, Bucky dipping Tony in a 40s-style dance hall. 

Finally, Marjorie stopped talking. 

“Questions? Anything to add?” Marjorie asked. Sweat was starting to bead high on her forehead. 

MJ glanced up and down the table. 

Was no one going to talk about the fact that Bucky had been invited to the NYC Secret Session during Taylor’s latest album release cycle? That every single one of the notoriously loose-lipped sessioners kept quiet about it until after he’d posted on Instagram? That they all swore he’d cried during tracks 5 and 13, wiping his cheeks on a _Red_ tour t-shirt that obviously had been a gift from Taylor? 

There were memes. _Bucky Barnes is one of us. _

All that was before you even got into the fact that Bucky’s all-Taylor, all-love-songs Spotify playlist was called “Golden (Red).” 

Bucky Barnes was in love with Tony Stark. 

And every single Swiftie shipped it. 

_Speak now_, she told herself. 

After a moment, MJ raised her hand. 

“Uh, yes?” said Marjorie. 

“Now seems like a good time to say that Bu—Mr. Barnes and Mr. Stark would have the full backing of a significant percentage of Taylor Swift fans,” said MJ. “And I hope by now everyone in this room understands the power in that.” 

Marjorie looked like Michelle had simultaneously given her a winning lottery ticket and signed her execution order. 

Basically the LWYMMD video.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic would not be complete without some BONUS MEDIA CONTENT featuring one of Taylor's all-time greats. Consumers of content, please turn your radios down & talk real slow to honor beginningwithA.

“Have you seen MJ’s new video?” Peter asked, hanging upside down from the pull-up bar. 

“I have better things to do than keep up with your girlfriend’s analysis of required reading texts for first-year college students,” said Tony. He unwrapped his hands and shook out his shoulders. 

He _really_ was not getting any younger. 

“So you have seen it,” said Peter, flipping down to land in front of him. 

Tony flapped a hand. “Jarvis may have played it while I was doing something else.” 

“I’m going to tell her you watched it. Are you subscribed? Subscribing is so important,” Peter said. 

“Jarvis?” Tony prompted. 

“You are subscribed to Miss Jones on all five of your YouTube accounts,” Jarvis said promptly. “You also follow her on Instagram, Twitter, Reddit, and TikTok.” 

“Awesome!” said Peter. “But I meant her fandom account, not her main one.” 

Tony groaned. “The _last thing_, Peter, I am telling you the _last thing_ this world needs is Michelle having a fandom account.” 

“Okay, well,” Peter frowned. “She does! And her latest video is really good! And you should watch it! Okay, I have to go, I’m gonna be late for our date, bye!” 

Peter was gone before Tony could blink. 

“Be safe!” he shouted belatedly. 

No one could say that he didn’t try. 

Later, after a long shower and a longer talk with Dum-E about responsible wrench-sorting techniques and five seconds of signing S.I. contracts, Tony had Jarvis pull up the video. 

It was one of those “Avengers fights set to Taylor Swift music” videos Tony hadn’t watched in ages. 

This time, the song was “Better Than Revenge.” 

Tony settled in. 

The narrative of the video was basically Bucky being a BAMF, which Tony supported 3000 percent. 

That _ass_. 

Those thighs. 

The scruff. 

After about fifteen seconds, though, Tony realized the selected clips were a little more nuanced than that. 

The clips were of Bucky beating bad guys up only _after_ they’d gone after Steve… or Tony. 

A little something from what must have been every fight in the last two years, Bucky taking out target after target, one eye on the sky. 

Tony struggled to marshal his feelings into some coherency. 

It was… it was nice, wasn’t it? 

No more than what Tony did for Bucky.

Bad example, on account of the whole thing where Tony was play-“Lover”-on-repeat in love with Bucky. 

So. No more than what Bucky did for Steve, or Sam. Right? 

Just… being a good teammate. 

He watched the video again. 

Bucky didn’t wear that awful half-mask anymore, not since joining the Avengers. 

And even though Steve was the impetus of about 40% of these clips… the expression on Bucky’s face when he was defending Steve wan’t the same one he wore when he was avenging Tony. 

In fact, it wasn’t at all the same expression. 

It was… 

Because the thing was, Tony _recognized_ that facial expression. Not on Bucky’s face, but as muscle memory, on his own. 

It was the face you made when the love of your life was in danger, and nothing was going to stop you from making sure whoever threatened them paid for it. 

With interest. 

_Huh_. 

Tony’s stomach grumbled a little. 

“Time, Jarvis?” he said absently, as the video played again. 

“Six thirty-four, Sir.” 

Dinnertime, then. 

Tony stretched and headed toward the elevator. 

And it was a Tuesday, which meant stir-fry. 

He froze, one foot inside the elevator, one out. 

He had literally just been in the middle of the biggest emotional revelation of his life, and now he was on his way upstairs for… an ordinary meal? 

“Jarvis,” he said, slowly. “We have a fucking _dinnertime_? That I _attend_?” 

“Indeed, Sir,” said Jarvis, sounding extremely pleased with himself. 

Tony finished getting in the elevator. 

“Hands,” said Bucky when Tony stepped into the kitchen, only for Tony to realize he was already halfway to the sink. 

He stopped again. 

Bucky was… looking at him. 

The way Bucky always looked at him. 

Because Bucky was _always _looking at him. 

Always—what had Tony said, ages ago?—paying attention. 

Focused. 

“Are you okay?” said Bucky, his eyes narrowed but his voice earnest. “Did you not re-hydrate after your workout? I put your water bottle next to the soldering iron you like—”

“Sorry, hang on,” said Tony, suddenly unable to look at Bucky. “Jarvis, how many hours of sleep did I get last night?” 

“Seven hours and thirteen minutes, Sir,” said Jarvis. 

“And… average over the past month?” 

“Seven hours and six minutes.” 

“Oh man, is this the moment?” Sam asked, from his seat at the table. 

“That’s a song, isn’t it?” Steve said excitedly. ““The Moment I Knew.”” 

“Yes,” said Tony. 

“No,” said Sam. 

“Wrong kind of moment. Opposite kind,” said Bucky, not taking his eyes off of Tony. 

Bucky shifted his weight, biting his lip. 

Tony’s heart was beating so hard, Tony was frankly surprised it didn’t pound itself right out of his chest and onto the floor at Bucky’s feet. 

He’d thought about this moment. 

A lot, if he was being honest with himself, which he never liked to be if he could avoid it. 

What he would say if he thought, just for a second, just for a fraction of a chance, that Bucky's feelings might mirror his own. 

What he would do. 

How they would kiss. 

Tony meant to start with something romantic, something Bucky would like, something like, _you have no idea how many hundreds of thrown-out speeches I’ve almost said to you_. 

Instead, he said, “I’m a plant!” 

In his periphery vision, Sam doubled over with laughter. 

“I’m so sorry,” Sam wheezed. “But the man has been pining over you for _years_, and you’re a literal genius, and you figure it out, and the best thing you can come up with is, _I’m a plant_?” 

“Should we go? We’re leaving,” said Steve, his voice firm, pulling Sam with him down the hall. 

Tony ran a hand through his hair. 

“I mean I—we have a _dinnertime_!” Tony said, halfway to hysteria. “I apparently spend seven full hours a day _sleeping_, and I sure as fuck did not come up with that myself!” 

“I like eatin’ with you,” Bucky said, his voice low. 

Tony opened his mouth. Closed it. 

Bucky apparently took it as his cue to continue. “I like cooking for you. I like the way your face looks when I get it right. And I like it when you get enough sleep, because it means you’re awake enough to pay attention in battle. And awake enough to drag me to the garage sometimes and tell me to pick a car and don’t protest when I say, “I’ll drive.” Awake enough so I know you’ve got a clear head when you—when you say stuff. Sometimes.” 

“I never have a clear head around you,” Tony said, bewildered. He took a breath. He wet his lips. “I’m New York City.” 

A smile unfurled across Bucky’s face. “That still does it for me, babe.” 

And their first kiss? 

Was really something. 

  


Six months later, Tony posted a video to his public-personal YouTube channel. 

Within an hour, it was declared an instant fan classic. 

Taylor herself texted him with congratulations. 

Over the years, you see, there had been plenty of Avengers fights set to “Our Song.” 

Tony’s, however, became _The_ Our Song fight video. 

Obviously. 

Tony knew, and Bucky knew, and they knew the other knew, that their song was also the sound of the oven timer for cookies at midnight, and bad sci-fi films at 2a.m., and heckling the Yankees, and whispers after nightmares, and the jet touching down for spontaneous trips to London. 

But just to have a little fun… just to match what Bucky had, right under Tony’s nose, been doing for _years_… 

Sometimes a superhero love story was just punching a Nazi and living to kiss your boyfriend when he landed. 

  


“Don’t tell him, but, I know he won’t be mad you knew first,” Tony said to Taylor backstage. 

Her jaw dropped as she took in the object in his hand. 

He palmed it quickly, tucking it back into his suit pocket. 

“Oh my god! Oh my god!” she squealed, throwing her arms around him. “I have to change my set.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, you have a new album to promote tonight,” said Tony. 

It was, after all, the point of her appearance on the show. 

“Yeah, but this only happens once in a lifetime. Or at least it should.” Taylor gave him a look. 

Out of all the people Tony had expected the shovel talk from… Taylor Swift was not on his list. 

“I’ve waited my whole life,” said Tony simply. 

“And so has he.” Tears glistened beneath her eyelash extensions. 

“One, two, three, four,” Tony said, sing-song. “But don’t worry, I’m waiting until the morning. I wouldn’t upstage your set. I just thought, in retrospect, he’ll like that you knew.” 

Taylor pressed a hand over her heart. “I’m changing the set. You’ll announce it, after?” 

“Tomorrow afternoon, I’m hoping.” Tony ducked his head. “Assuming, you know. I don’t think I’d be very good at keeping it a secret.” 

Taylor laughed. “You wear your heart on your sleeve. I admire that about you.” 

“So do you,” said Tony. 

Taylor gave a one-shoulder shrug, coy. “Sometimes people are paying attention to the wrong arm.” 

A PA came to collect Taylor, so Tony slipped back to their VIP seats, where Bucky was waiting. 

Bucky still couldn’t really handle concerts, but it had been no problem to get them in to this set. 

And the night was—there was no other way to put it. 

Sparkling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 1 month + 1 day to _Lover_! (Tree, I'm still waiting on those tickets.) 
> 
> Stretch! Drink some water! Read the lyrics for "Paper Rings!" Now you can read the next chapter.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for indulging allllllllll the references.   
Thanks most of all to beginningwithA for being the greatest Taylor Swift-reference enabler of ALL TIME (of all time).

“I’ve got a present for you,” Tony said the next morning, as they sat sipping coffee at the breakfast bar. 

“You just got me in to see Taylor last night,” said Bucky. 

It had been, hands down, one of the best nights of his life. 

Taylor live, Tony at his side? 

Songs had been written trying to capture that kind of perfection. 

Bucky knew, because he’d heard a few of them the night before. 

Tony rolled his eyes. “And if I hadn’t gotten those tickets, Taylor would have.” 

Sam was still delighted that, out of all the celebrity acquaintances Bucky probably could have picked up as an Avenger / Captain America’s best friend / Tony Stark’s boyfriend, he’d fallen in with Taylor and her increasingly queer cohort of friends. 

“But you did get them,” Bucky insisted. He blushed. “I know it’s… a little ridiculous, someone like me being all obsessed over—”

“Hey, no,” said Tony. “No. She’s talented, and she’s kind to you, and you loving pop music isn’t hurting anybody. It’s just… pure sunshine. Okay?” 

Bucky ducked his head. 

“All right, all right. So what’ve you got for me?” 

Tony reached under the chair, fiddling with something. A stuffed animal dropped into his waiting hand. 

Tony placed the Bucky Bear on the counter. 

The Bucky Bear who was wearing brand-new, miniature Taylor Swift merchandise: t-shirt, sweatshirt tied around his soft shoulders, necklace and all. 

_What was happening_. 

“I’m not from Tennessee, thank God, and I’m no Stella McCartney, but—”

Bucky’s jaw dropped. “You designed her new merch line!” 

Bucky picked up the stuffed bear, running his hands along the soft t-shirt. Bucky didn’t wear so much merch anymore, but before they’d started dating, years ago, when Bucky was just getting into Taylor and pining over Tony and… 

“It’s a small, limited edition collection. Not the full tour line,” said Tony. “But, uh. Yes.” 

“You just hated the old designs so much,” said Bucky.

“I really did,” said Tony. “More importantly…” He stopped. 

Bucky put the bear down. 

“More importantly, I love you,” said Tony. 

“I love you, too?” said Bucky. 

“And I’m never going to be as good with words as Taylor. And today, for once, I don’t really want to steal hers. But I do… I like actions.” 

“Iron Man,” said Bucky, on automatic. 

“Yes,” said Tony. “Yes. So. I’m going to… I’m just going to put something here, and if you—well. I know sometimes you need time to process the really big stuff. Especially about us. But, um. Find me. When you want to.” 

And he put something on the counter. 

A small, open jewelry box. 

Nestled inside was a paper ring. 

Not like a basic loop, taped together, but almost—braided or woven or something. 

Structured, and beautiful in its simplicity. 

Something Tony had obviously had to learn how to do, just for Bucky, just for this moment. 

Bucky’s mind was a blank screen. 

A 404 error. 

Tony wanted to—

Tony, his boyfriend, who took him on ridiculous whirlwind vacations and never complained when Bucky couldn’t accompany him to charity galas and never shied away from his arm and always, always said “I love you” back— 

Tony wanted to _marry_ him. 

Forever. 

And ever. 

And after _everything_—after somehow getting himself and Stevie through the Depression, and that prison camp, and the rest of the war, and whole nightmare of Hydra, and the second nightmare of escaping, and the third nightmare of getting Hydra out of his head, and every insecurity on Bucky’s part that kept him from asking Tony out, and every insecurity on Tony’s part that kept him from seeing how in love Bucky was— 

Tony wanted to love him _forever_. 

Which, as Bucky knew, could mean a very long time. 

Longer than anyone could have planned for. 

For the first time in his very long life, Bucky hoped he would get even more time. 

But first— 

Oh shit. 

He snatched up the ring box. 

Tony was probably freaking out now. Why hadn’t Bucky gotten his brain together a little faster? 

It wasn’t like it was really a _question_, what Bucky was going to answer. It wasn’t like he had spent any time at all actually _deliberating_. 

“Jarvis—” he managed. 

“On the roof,” said Jarvis. “And, if I may, Sergeant, although Sir did not use many words this morning, the words he chose were done so with care.” 

_Sometimes you need time. _

_Find me. _

Tony knew him. Really knew him. 

Bucky flung himself toward the elevator. 

Tony was sitting on one of those porch-swing bench seats, even though it was a rooftop patio, not a porch. His hair was still a little mussed from sleep, the ironic “I <3 NYC” shirt fluttering against his skin in the light breeze. 

Tony looked up, smiling, when Bucky burst out into the sunlight. 

Bucky crossed the patio and dropped to one knee. 

“You’re the love of all my lives. In every universe, the real ones and the ones just in your head, I swear to love you. And I want to be yours. I know you like shiny things, and I’ve got something shiny for you downstairs, but I didn’t want to stop for even a second to grab it. So even though you stole the morning from me—Tony Stark, will you marry me?” 

And the sound of Tony’s _yes _was better than any song. 


End file.
